


The Ghost Next Door

by CapnJack



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Humor, Mystery, Romance, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the longest and hottest summer of Rose Tyler's life, with all her friends away on holiday while she was left stuck at home and lumbered with looking after baby brother Tony. Thankfully new neighbour John Smith tumbles into her back garden to alleviate the boredom, but she begins to suspect there's something not quite right about him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This won't be particularly long, no more than 10 chapters I suspect, but hopefully it should be a fun ride! Based on the book of the same name by R.L Stine, so any recognisable material doesn't belong to me. :) Enjoy!

It was the longest summer of Rose Tyler's life, and she was only two weeks in. All of her friends had collectively decided to go on a trip to the south of France for the entire two months while she had been left at home in the small hamlet of Torchwood, a few miles north of the sea. She'd wanted desperately to go along, but the meagre pay she received from her Saturday job at Henrik's Department Store wasn't nearly enough to fund it and her parents had refused to contribute, seeing as her departure would mean they'd have to hire a babysitter for her younger brother Tony while the pair of them were at work during the day. So instead her friends were trekking abroad, while she was stuck at home, and had left her with the promise to write everyday; that was two weeks ago. She hadn't received _one_ letter from any of her classmates. 

Without anyone her age to talk to and charged with looking after seven-year-old Tony Tyler, Rose's days were reduced to idleness in the surging heat. Torchwood was the slowest and dullest suburban neighbourhood, with very few of the population under the age of thirty-five to talk to and even less to do in terms of entertainment. There wasn't even a cinema. Her mornings consisted of sitting outside in her garden attempting to bronze a little or flipping through channels on the television while Tony whizzed around the house with his toys, while her afternoons saw her walking her brother to his summer playgroup before returning home to, supposedly, do some work. In truth she mostly sat in her room dozing with an open textbook beside her. By that point in the day the air would become so humid and unbearable that while she claimed she was trying to absorb her summer reading, in fact she could barely move, spread out on the bed and only shifting to try and find cooler purchase on the sheets. 

The days dragged on like a heady blur of colour and almost complete inactivity, though she rushed to the front door every day the post arrived with the hopes of at least living vicariously through her friend's adventures. Every day she faced the same disappointment: nothing. 

One evening, after her parents had each returned home from work in sour moods as a culmination of the heat, the work and whatever else they'd endured, both of them ended up snapping at Tony involuntarily when he asked them to play with him. When Rose spotted his bottom lip start to tremble she'd immediately grabbed his hand and whisked him outside as dusk began to tiptoe across the sky. With a lack of anything else to do she'd constructed a campfire out of dry timber left just outside the gate at the end of the yard and plonked Tony down next to it, deciding they should tell ghost stories. 

It was the most inspired thing she'd done all summer, and it was while she was telling a particularly grizzly tale about a werewolf that she decided she was going to stop skulking around and at least make use the time without her friends for distractions to actually _do_ some of her set reading, or start working on the syllabus for next year. It was Tony's enraptured face that did it; his childlike gift for innovative thinking allowed him to make fun out of every spare moment he could, so it only seemed fair she should try and harvest time in the same way. 

Tony had cheered up exponentially as they told stories even if a couple of hers had him shrinking away from her into the grass, and he was content as a cat when he started to drift off. Rose had lifted him carefully from his seat on the grass, hastily put out the fire and taken him to bed, accepting her parents' grateful smiles as she passed through the sitting room with the dozing boy. As she tucked Tony in and he sleepily murmured a thank you, and that she was the best sister ever, Rose decided it was really time to take charge of her summer. 

Starting tomorrow, she was going to get everything back on track. 

****

***

The next morning Rose awoke in a cold sweat and breathing hard, heat burning across the expanse of her skin as she struggled underneath the sheet. Panic set her blood ablaze as she tried desperately to escape the cover; she felt as if she might burn if she didn't break from the unbearable warmth within the discomfort of her bed. With a final push she toppled over, landing onto the floor of her bedroom with a thud.

Cold air immediately hit her and she gasped for it like a person starved; it wasn't the first time she'd woken from a nightmare since the beginning of the heat wave, but it had certainly been the most vivid. Flames had scorched her entire house, scalding her body as she'd screamed in protest. She could still hear the rush of her pulse in her ear although the panic slowly began to subside as she realised she was perfectly safe, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. 

"I need a fan," she groused through deep breaths. "I _need_ a fan in this room." If nothing else it might stop the heat from assaulting her even while she slept. 

After she felt like she'd recovered enough she stood and went about her morning routine; it was best to wake up early during the summer so she could enjoy the coolest part of the day, and also so she could be there to keep an eye on Tony as her parents left for work. She showered and changed into her standard shorts and sleeveless top, tying her hair up in a messy side ponytail. Anything to keep it away from her neck and shoulders, which would only get stickier as the day slugged on. 

"Morning," Rose yawned as she stepped into the kitchen.

"Y'know it's refreshing seeing you up this early on a Monday." Pete, her dad, grinned at her from over the top of his coffee mug while he supervised Tony shovelling cereal into his mouth. "Normally Jacks is tugging you out of bed before school." 

"It's too hot to sleep," she grimaced, before turning her attention on her father and batting her eyelashes a little. "Daddy," she began, tone sickly sweet. Pete raised an eyebrow. "Can I have a fan in my room? Please? _Please?_ "

"'Course you can," Jackie replied crisply as she charged into the kitchen with a slice of toast in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. "If you buy it yourself. They've gotten so expensive since this heat wave business started, and you're the one with the discount at Henrik's."

Rose sighed. "You know I'm trying to save for a new bike."

"But you love that red one," her dad seemed bemused by this new information, forgetting to watch Tony as he did so. 

"Pete, don't let him dribble. He looks like a dog—look, c'mere sweetheart." 

"Lov _ed_ ," Rose corrected, "when I was twelve. It's a bit small for me now, Dad. I'm not really a fan of the bright red anymore." 

"I'm not _letting_ him dribble. It's not my fault he's got the table manners of Granddad Prentice."

"Why are you always like this? You start an argument you can't win so you just throw in my dad to please your ego." 

Tony shrunk away from the stern looks passing between his parents, letting his spoon drop into his bowl. 

Rose watched on with a frown. "Oh pack it in you two. He's not three anymore, he knows when you're fighting." She reached forward and wiped Tony's chin with a tissue.

Her brother gave her a dazzling smile. "I'm eating Coco Pops today!" 

"That's great. Sorry, champ." Pete stood and gave his son a kiss on the cheek before dumping his mug in the sink. "Anyway I better get going. Rose, keys are in the pot and don't forget to take him to his playgroup." Rose rolled her eyes; it was the same reminder every day. As if she'd forget the one action that afforded her a little peace in the house. She began to open the screen door to head out onto the porch and relax for a few minutes, but Jackie's voice called her back. 

"Thanks so much for taking care of Tony last night, we're sorry about that. Your dad and me—we're just a bit stressed, that's all." She gave her a brief hug which she returned. 

Rose shifted hopefully. "Any post?"

Jackie gave her a sympathetic look. "Not today, hon. Keep an eye out for the parcel deliveries though, they always come later. I'm sorry you couldn't go on holiday with your friends." 

"Me too," she muttered. "Have a good day." Jackie gave her an offhand farewell, tousled Tony's sandy hair and followed where Peter had left. Rose heard the familiar roar of the engine signalling her mother having pulled out of the driveway and sighed. 

The least she could do was make today less of a waste than any other day. Even in spite of last night's resolution, over the next few hours all she'd managed was to bring a couple of her textbooks downstairs to sit sentinel on the kitchen table while she avoided them in favour of playing snakes and ladders and building a Lego city with Tony; he, of course, was delighted by her procrastination techniques and garnered the most attention from her he'd gotten in all the mornings since summer began. 

It was just past noon when a loud _thump_ echoed throughout the house, and Rose and Tony looked up from their makeshift Metropolis. "Stay here," Rose said and he was content to comply as she wandered to the backdoor where she thought the noise had come from. 

Hesitantly she opened the screen door and stepped outside, scrutinising the porch for anything that could have made the noise. Her eyes came to rest on a small, circular disc sat a few feet in front of her. As she picked it up she observed the swirling patterns and realised it was some kind of plastic Frisbee. 

"What are you doing here?" The voice startled her and she looked up, seeing a figure standing in the middle of her garden. 

Rose blinked at the abruptness of the question. "I live here?" 

"Well, what'd you do that for?" 

She frowned. "'Cause I do. What are _you_ doing here?" 

It was her garden after all, and she walked towards the steps at the edge of the porch as she took in the stranger a few feet below her. It was a young man who looked about her age, dressed in a dark blue button-up shirt and shorts with his hands shoved into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on the heels of his white chucks. The corner of his mouth was tugged up in a grin and she took in a pinched nose, a smattering of freckles and deep chestnut brown hair that stuck up at odd angles. The fact that he was standing in the middle of her garden aside, he was a bit cute. Rose found herself wishing she'd worn something a little more flattering than her plain orange top. 

"You've got my Frisbee, you tell me why I'm here."

Rose looked down at the disc in her hands and pieced the puzzle together. "Reckon this must've bounced off my backdoor or something—watch where you're throwing it next time, yeah?" Praying her aim wouldn't veer too far of course, she tossed it back to him. 

Thankfully the young man only had to jump a few feet to the left to catch it. His face was scrunched up in a frown. "Wait, you live here?" He pointed at the house. 

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

"In that house?" 

"Where do you live, then? And what the hell are you doing in my garden?"

"Getting my Frisbee," he replied defensively. "And I live over there." She followed the line of his finger over the fence to the house next door and she gave him a bemused look. That house, known to the locals as Tardis House, had always given her the creeps with the curtains drawn over every window and the spider webs all holed up in the furthest corner of the porch. From her favourite spot in her garden she could usually see right into the kitchen window, and the lights were never on. 

"But that house is empty," Rose pointed out and John's mouth quirked up in a smile. 

"Well, clearly it's not, or I wouldn't be living there. Although, it's just me and my mum and it's a big house so I guess some of it must be empty at least some of the time. And none of us are in there right now so I suppose, yes, you're right, it is empty at this very moment."

Rose was busy trying to puzzle how someone could have moved into Tardis House without her knowing it. It had always been empty, since before Tony was born, no one having moved in after the McGann's left the street; she remembered looking up at the house last night while she was telling Tony ghost stories and it had still appeared pretty derelict then. 

"Alright, smartarse," Rose rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "I guess we're neighbours. What's your name?"

"John," he replied. "John Smith. You?"

"Rose Tyler."

John held up the Frisbee and nodded between her and it, inviting her to catch it. She grinned and he threw it her way. "How come I've never seen you before?" His tone was lightly tilted with amused suspicion.

"How come I've never seen _you?_ " she shot back as she caught it. 

"Touché," John chuckled. 

"Did you just move in?" she asked as she tossed it down the steps. 

"Nah." John caught it with the air of someone used to playing with it, and he readied himself to throw it back. "I've been living here a while." 

Now Rose was completely astounded—how was it possible for him to have been living in Tardis for so long without her knowledge? It was completely preposterous. John threw the Frisbee again, but it soared over her head and crashed into the wall of her house. 

"Whoops, sorry!" she could hear John call from behind her. As she bent to pick the Frisbee up Tony's voice floated towards her through the screen door. 

"Roooose," he whined, "I can't control the police station _and_ the fire station, I can only do one. What if there are robbers and the house is on fire too?"  
Rose laughed. "I'll be there in a minute Tigger, wait a sec." She turned to chuck the Frisbee back towards John with a rushed goodbye, but the garden was empty. She looked between the disc with the swirling patterns in her hand and the space where he'd been standing moments before, and thought to herself that it seemed like he'd vanished into thin air. 

****

***

That afternoon, as she had done every other day for the last two weeks, Rose walked Tony into town to drop him off at Parallel Playgroups. It was a summertime class for children aged 7-10 run by parent volunteers from across Torchwood, and kept Tony occupied until the evening. Pete usually picked him up on the way home from work so it was simply Rose's job to make sure he got there without hindrance. After a hug, a kiss on the cheek and the daily reminder to be good, she left Tony in the capable hands of Jake, one of the adult volunteers.

It was cooler that day than it had been for ages, the temperature dropping to a point where she could feel the breeze and suitably felt far more motivated to do things she hadn't in the past few weeks. As a result Rose decided she might walk further into the centre of town and get an ice cream from the parlour at the bottom of the high street before heading home to start her summer reading. The whole journey there and back she found the stranger she'd met in her garden that morning still at the forefront of her mind. 

John seemed like a nice person, it just remained a mystery how he got there in the first place. She expected if anyone were to move into Tardis she'd at least see some kind of mover's van, and considering how little else of any interest had happened the whole holiday, she figured she might have noticed. Although he claimed to have been living there for ages; was it possible a family with a boy her age had been living there for months without her realising? Perhaps he went to a school much further away? 

She was still puzzling it over as she licked the cone, but decided she didn't particularly mind. No matter how long he'd been around, it was finally somebody nearby to her that wasn't over thirty who she could _talk_ to. She'd been craving company for weeks and John Smith might just be exactly what she was hoping for. Not to mention he was a little cute, with his boyish grins and dimples and smiling eyes, although she blushed a little for thinking it; they'd only _just_ met, and she was already assessing him for boyfriend material. 

This summer had been far too long already. And far too _hot_. 

Rose was just turning into her street and polishing off the remainder of her ice cream when a whisper on the wind, nothing more than the brushing of leaves together, seemed to merge into a murmur in just the right way to form a word her ears were well attuned to. 

" _Rose..._ " it seemed to hiss. 

She hesitated, steps faltering only slightly before shaking her head and continuing on. It was only because of all those scary stories she and Tony had been telling the night before that her nerves were a little easier to grate on today. It was her own fault she was starting to hear ghosts in every treetop. 

The breeze picked up a little more, blowing some of the hair loose from her side ponytail. 

" _Rose..._ "

This time she turned, scanning the street for a source. The wind just didn't make noises like that; once she could dismiss, but twice? Never. A swing in someone's front garden creaked and her eyes were drawn to it, a shiver crawling up her spine against her will. 

"Wilson?" she called to the empty block. "Wilson, is that you? This stopped being funny when I was thirteen you know." 

" _Rose..._ "

"In fact it—it was never funny. So stop it, yeah?" Resolving not to give her prankster of a neighbour the satisfaction of seeing her spooked, Rose forced herself to turn around and keep walking. It was only a few more houses until she reached her own. On an ordinary day she'd probably be chasing him down and dragging him out into the middle of the street by the ear, fifty-year-old man or no (he really _should_ know better) but she just didn't have the will for it. Not today. 

A flash of movement caught her eye and she could've sworn she saw the swish of something black glide behind the maple tree in the front garden of Tardis House. Immediately her better judgement knew she should just leave it at that, not bother travelling the extra couple of meters just for the sake of investigating Tardis House, but Rose wasn't like that. She wasn't normally the kind of girl who'd pass up something that curious for the sake of better judgement, especially considering her discovery about the inhabitants of that house that very morning. 

So instead she crept up to the thick trunk of the maple, heart hammering in her chest. Maybe she'd seen nothing at all, and she was just letting herself be manipulated by her imagination running rampant. Her fingers tingled with anticipation and she decided this kind of investigation was like ripping off a plaster; best done quickly.

Rose jumped around the tree expecting to find Wilson dolled up in some Halloween costume for his own amusement, and was confronted with nothing. Just another empty patch of grass. 

"I'm losing my mind," she muttered, relief quaking her tone. She'd been without company for so long now she was even starting to dream up phantoms in quiet suburban streets. As she spoke her eyes unconsciously focused on something at the end of the road, and she stopped dead when she realised it hadn't been there before. A dark figure stood on the street corner, watching her. 

It could've been a shadow cast by one of the trees, but there weren't any at quite the right angle. It could've been her imagination, but she shut her eyes and opened them and it was still there. It could've been Wilson, but the proportions were all wrong. It was far too tall, far too thin, its limbs far too distorted. It stared at her, motionless, like a sentinel guarding the dark contours of the street. 

Then it lifted one slender arm towards her and even from twenty meters way she felt the prickle of a dry, coarse touch on her cheek. 

" _Rose..._ "

Rose tore her gaze away and bolted for the front door of her house, slamming it shut behind her.

*******

Something curious struck her much later that evening, and she mused aloud over dinner;

"What kind of kid plays Frisbee all by himself?"


	2. Chapter 2

By the following morning Rose was convinced she'd made the whole palaver with the shadow up. With a summer this boring it would suit her to get involved in some sort of ghost story to pass the time, so her mind had simply been conjuring up phantom figures to try and ease the banality of weeks spent in Torchwood. Not to mention after she'd finally plucked up the courage to step back outside she'd combed the street for an hour looking for any sign of it, and there'd been nothing. It was probably just the light reflecting off something in a weird way, or the shadow of a tree. Nothing to get so worked up about. 

This in mind, Rose clomped down the stairs just as the coughing motor of the old post van slugged past her door and her head snapped up hopefully. She skipped the remaining three steps to throw open the front door, but in vain; the van didn't stop. She tried to mask her disappointment, letting her gaze wander to the left to survey Tardis House—it still looked creepy as ever, occupants or no. They didn't get any post either. 

She turned back inside and shut the door miserably. 

"Any letters?" Jackie called from the kitchen. 

"Not even a postcard," she grumbled. There was only so much of this she could take—not getting a letter _every_ day she could understand, but not getting one at all? It didn't seem fair that they were all off gallivanting and having great adventures while she was stuck in Torchwood. 

She grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper on her way into the kitchen before placing them a little forcefully onto the table. Pete looked up from his mug of coffee with a raised eyebrow. 

"I'm writing a letter," she announced.

"It's a bit early for Christmas, isn't it?"

"And there was me thinking she might actually be starting her schoolwork," Jackie muttered as she placed a plate of scrambled egg in front of Tony. At Rose's indignant look she continued, "Don't think I don't know you spend all day sleeping! There were textbooks left on my table yesterday and they didn't look like they'd been opened in weeks." 

Rose ignored her sheepishly as she headed for the fridge and poured herself a glass of orange juice."I'm not writing to Father Christmas," she instead directed at her father, "which, by the way, I haven't done since I was twelve." 

Pete covered Tony's ears with his hands. "And I'm sure he's very hurt." 

"I'm writing to Shareen and Mickey and stuff. The least they could do is send me a lousy postcard. I've got the address of the hotel they should be in this week and I'll send it there."

Jackie pulled on her coat, and the familiar jangle of hey keys could be heard as she fumbled around in her pocket for them. "Oh, Rose—Derek rang by the way, and he says they don't need you to go in this Saturday."

"What?" Rose cried. "What if I _want_ to go in? I need the money for a bike!" 

"Don't yell at me, it's all them Uni students back for the holidays. They'd rather have them at Henrik's than a girl in the middle of their A-Levels—which, by the way, you should start revising for."

Rose gave her one of her best glares which Jackie shrugged off before kissing both Pete and Tony and heading for the front door. Her daughter fiddled around with the paper and pen wondering what to write about when an idea popped into her head. 

"Dad, did you know somebody's moved in next door?"

Pete blinked. "What, into Tardis?"

"Yeah," she continued, "there's this guy John Smith who looks about my age and his mum. Did you see them move in?"

"Oh damn, I'm going to be late," Pete glanced at the clock on the wall and leapt to his feet. "Remember, keys are—"

"In the pot, and I won't forget to take Tony to Parallels, don't worry." She followed him to the front door and watched as he got into his car. "But Dad have you seen them? The Smiths, I mean?"

"I'm really late, sweetheart. We'll talk about it tonight, alright?" He dropped into the front seat and pulled the door shut behind him with an air of finality. Rose crossed her arms and grumbled to herself; she didn't like being dismissed like that. Sometimes she felt like her dad mixed up which child he was talking to; the seven-year-old or the seventeen-year-old.

_Dear Shareen,_

_I kinda hope you guys have been eaten by wolves or fallen in the ocean by now, because those are the only excuses I will accept for not writing me a thing since you left. I appreciate that you guys are probably having a great time in France, but you did promise to write me every day. It's not my fault I couldn't go with you, blame my stupid parents! Torchwood is so boring without you, literally nothing happens. This massive heat wave started after you left and apparently it's staying all summer, but the only person I can enjoy it with is Tony and he just wants to sit inside and watch Ben 10 all day. Mum keeps telling me to go do some work on Wilson's garden like we all used to, but somehow £1.50 an hour isn't really a rate I can accept anymore—not to mention Wilson's still pulling practical jokes like ever._

_The other night I was so bored and Tony was a bit sad so I built a campfire and we sat outside and told ghost stories, which wasn't too bad, except I'm so grossed out by this one he told about Danish cheese. Were we like that when we were seven or is it just a boy thing? Anyway, it was probably a bad idea because I keep thinking I see shadows and ghosts everywhere. I actually managed to convince myself someone was calling my name yesterday, but like I say, Wilson. Don't laugh! You'd be the same if you spent every day on a street as silent as the grave. Summer's like a dead place in Torchwood._

_Speaking of ghosts, I met this guy called John yesterday (yes Shareen, he's pretty cute) who lives next door in Tardis. How weird is that? I could've sworn no one was living there a few weeks ago, but he claims to have been there for ages. Spooky. He pretty much just materialised in my garden and we played Frisbee for a bit, but then he left it behind. Have you seen him about before now? I suppose he might help make things a little more interesting. Hopefully I'll have more to report later._

_Anyway, I do hope you guys are having fun, but please write me soon before I end up certifiable. Tell Mickey and everyone I said hey._

_Love,  
Rose_

"C'mon Tigger, we're going on an adventure. Get your shoes on." She tapped her brother on the head to draw his attention away from the TV screen. Tony protested very feebly as she reached for the remote, but obeyed all the same and wandered to the door. "Honestly. You'd spend all day staring at that screen if I didn't make you move."

"Would not!" 

"Would to."

"Would _not!_ " Tony stuck his tongue out at her as he slipped on his shoes before racing out the door. 

"Oi, don't run off!"

Rose decided it would be nice instead of just posting the letter in the post box at the end of the road to take it all the way to the post office in town; it would pass the time a little and they could both do with the fresh air. It was only a little further than the way they walked to Parallel Playgroups every day, and Rose promised Tony if he was good he could have an ice cream on the way home.

By mid-morning the sun had risen partway across the sky and was just beginning to heat up the town; Rose could feel the pavement underneath her sandals starting to burn. Torchwood itself was as dry as a bone, barely anyone wanted to emerge from their air conditioned homes to go outside and the streets were deserted. It were as if the whole town had been lulled into a deep slumber with only the occasional car or morning shopper to show for signs of life.

After holding her hand for most of the way, Tony tugged on it and lifted his arm to indicate him wanting a piggy back. Rose sighed.

"You're getting to big for piggy backs," she grumbled, but crouched down all the same. 

"Nuh uh," he protested and clambered on gleefully. "Morning Mrs O'Brien!" he chirped as they passed one of the posh ladies from their street examining some hedge trimmers through a shop window. The woman ignored them, not looking up from the display. Rose wasn't impressed with her rudeness. 

"And that, Tony Tyler," she remarked loudly, "is a perfect example of a snob. Say it after me? Snob."

"Snob," he said seriously, then pulled on a strand of her hair. "Rose?" She made a noncommittal noise."Why haven't you written to Santa since you were twelve?"

"Um," she floundered for a response. "Oh, I, er, I email him instead." 

"Oh." To her relief this answer seemed to placate him. "Can I email Santa?"

"Maybe nearer to Christmas, Tigger. It's only just July." They reached the post office and Rose slipped the letter into the letterbox just outside. Tony was jabbering on about something to do with his Christmas wish list but Rose wasn't really listening, watching as three people emerged from the building. 

The first two, a dark-skinned girl and a taller boy who looked like he was dressed for the mid-20th century, took no notice of her, but the third gave her a hesitant wave. Rose recognised John from the day before and waved back. He grinned brightly, but all too soon his attention was caught by something the other boy had said and they were moving away—clearly he was with company he didn't particularly feel like introducing his neighbour too. Rose watched on enviously. She wished she had some friends she could walk around town with.

"Rose!" Tony whined, pulling a little harder on her hair. "Are you even _listening_ to me?"

She sighed, and began the long trek home.

****

***

The second time Rose met John Smith she was sitting in her garden propped up against one of the old willows while trying to soak in some of her schoolwork. Sitting in the shade was one of the only ways to avoid the humidity and she much preferred to work outside; she couldn't trust herself not to pass the time doing nothing in her room as she had done for the past few weeks.

Her English literature teacher had set the class several books she considered worth reading over the summer holiday, but she had to admit she was struggling a little bit with reading analytically and knowing what was worth describing in an essay and what was just tosh. She usually copied off Adam Mitchell for all that. She was just working her way through the first act of Othello when she looked up, hoping for some inspiration, and her eyes came to rest on somebody sitting on her garden fence. 

John Smith was perched there giving her a very curious look. His sudden appearance startled her a little but she recovered quickly, suspicious of just how long he'd been sitting there.

She smiled. "The intruder returns." 

"How'd he get in? In-tru-der window?" She couldn't help but laugh.

"Over the fence more like it."

John pushed forward and dropped down from the wooden panel. His touchdown was silent at which she raised an eyebrow, but probably explained why she didn't hear him climb up either.

"I've come for my Frisbee," he declared. "You do still have it, don't you?"

"Sure." Rose shut the book and placed it on the grass beside her. "Although why you were playing with it by yourself is beyond me." 

John frowned. "I wasn't playing by myself. What kind of dunce plays Frisbee by himself? No, I was with my friend Martha—you saw her today, by the post office. Remember?"

Rose nodded as she passed him, clambering up the steps to the porch to retrieve the Frisbee. After he'd forgotten it the day before she hadn't really known what to do with it, so she'd simply left it on the garden table. "She was pretty."

John cocked his head to the side. "Does that matter?"

Rose shrugged. "Guess not. Looked nice though."

After pretending to throw it to warn him she chucked the Frisbee down the steps and he picked it up. "She's great. Just a mate from school."

Rose pondered this information hesitantly; if he had friends from school he couldn't be new to the area, could he? Had he really been living in Tardis for such a long time and she just hadn't realised? It seemed too strange. 

"Where do you go?" she asked, jumping down to meet him. 

"I'm in the sixth form at Deffry Vale."

Rose blinked, turning to face him slowly. "Deffry Vale?"

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" he echoed her words from yesterday with a teasing smile. "Problem?"

"No, that's just—I go there. I'm in the sixth form at Deffry Vale." How could she have not met him before?

John too seemed a little put off by this. "Oh. So do you know her, then? Martha Jones?" Rose shook her head. "Jack Harkness?" Again, no. John rubbed his chin. "Weird."

Rose nodded in agreement before moving back to her tree to see where she'd dropped the book. "What about Shareen Costello?" John didn't respond, examining his Frisbee. "Mickey Smith?"

He changed the subject, discarding the Frisbee and bouncing over. "So, what are you doing?"

"Ugh, trying to analyse," she held up the offending edition of Othello for him to see, "this."

"' _This_ '?" John replied incredulously. "You didn't just call one of Shakespeare's best works ' _this_ ', did you?"

"It's boring." 

"It's—it's—?" John looked flabbergasted, and clutched at his heart. "It's _Shakespeare_! He's a genius! _The_ genius! The geniusest genius there ever was!" Rose raised an eyebrow at his antics and he dropped down beside her dramatically, holding out his hand for the book as he leant against the willow. 

"I'm guessing you're an English literature student?"

He didn't answer her. "Ah," he nodded sagely and pointed at her page, "that explains it. You're not at the good bit yet. There's no use sitting around reading all the politics about whose invading who, those are just fillers."

Rose grinned, tongue drifting out touch the corner of her mouth. "I bet the people being invaded thought that too."

John gave her a reproachful look. "It's emotion and drama where Shakespeare really comes into his own. He always uses the best words; brilliant, beautiful words. He could coax an entire theatre to tears with just a few choice verbs and nouns and adjectives all thrown together in a certain order."

He tapped the cover and the look in his eyes made Rose want to understand, want to feel the same kind of excitement John seemed to experience so easily. Maybe something in her stare told him so, because then he was looking back at the book and opening it to the page she was on. 

"I could show you if you like. If you need help analysing stuff I also need to look at Othello this summer so I've got a head start."

She smiled. "That would be fab, thanks. I mean, if you're not too busy or anything."

"No," he answered perhaps a little too quickly and blushed. "I mean, not really. Apart from throwing Frisbees into my neighbour's gardens." She rolled her eyes but he continued seriously, "No, I mean it. It's a full time job. And if I didn't do it I might not get to meet great neighbours like you." 

Rose was going to laugh but the sincerity in his eyes was almost compelling. Instead of being able to come up with something aloof to throw back at him she couldn't say a word—she had to avert her eyes and brush a strand of hair behind her ear for want of something to do. She wasn't used to such frankness in the face of someone her age.

Thankfully, he seemed to sense her awkwardness. "So what else do you study?" he asked, sitting forward so he could rest his arms on his knees and pick some grass up from the ground.

"Erm, modern history and psychology. You?"

John stuck out his tongue. "Psychology, gross. You actually believe that stuff? I'm dreaming about shoes therefore I must have regained my foothold in life?"

"Hey, it's not all like that," she reasoned, "all ridiculous and not based on anything. Dream analysis is actually pretty unreliable—shoes might mean one thing in one book and another in the eyes of a psychologist." If his unimpressed expression was anything to go on, he clearly wasn't all that enthused. "It's actually recognised as a science in most circles."

"Pff!" 

Rose wasn't sure how, but over the course of that entire afternoon spent lazing around in the sun with John, he managed to get away with not breathing one word about himself. They chattered about an all manner of nonsensical things; shoes and stain glass windows and riddles and a lot of Shakespeare until the sun started to dip behind the fence and he decided it'd be better if he went home. It was only after he'd long gone that she realised the only personal details she knew about John Smith were his name, age and the names of his two best friends, whereas she knew she'd jabbered on about Tony and her parents nonstop. He was either artful at evading personal questions or she simply hadn't asked; Rose felt a little guilty in case it was the latter. 

She'd been so wrapped up in her own problems this summer, what with being left behind and having to deal with Tony every morning, it hadn't taken much for her to start rambling about herself. Oddly enough, John hadn't seemed to mind.

"So I can come again?" he'd asked, and she'd found it adorable how he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot the other awaiting her response. In her opinion it was a strange way of phrasing the question.

"Of course." She'd grinned at him, and his face had lit up in a brilliant smile. 

"Fantastic! I'll see you tomorrow then!" he'd crowed, and Rose had paused to return his enthusiasm with a nod before turning around to pack away her English books and pencils. When she'd looked back he was gone. He had to be lightning quick at climbing that fence.

This time with the Frisbee gone too, the light impression on the grass was the only indication that John had been there at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while! And we're almost caught up to where I am on Teaspoon, so woo! I have a lot more free time now so the next chapter shouldn't take nearly as long. Thanks for reading!

Despite his promise, John didn't come back the next day. Rose had lingered outside for an embarrassingly long time throwing glances to the top of the fence to see if he'd appear, but he didn't. He did, however, drop into her garden the next day and the day after that—she was quickly learning that his visits were sporadic; no matter how certain he was that he'd be there on This Day at This Time he was never quite there when he was determined to be. She attributed it to his personality; he had his head stuck in the clouds and no mistake, but it all added to his charm.

Rose enjoyed his visits immensely even if he never stayed more than two or three hours because he claimed he was needed at home, he provided a sort of grounding force to the summer that had been ploughing ahead beyond her control. The days he skipped ran into one another, uncomfortably so, so she was always glad to see him perched at the top of the fence waiting for her to acknowledge him and invite him over.

She was discovering more about him every day—nothing official mind, she'd been quick to discover he hated talking about himself, but his views on the world and his analyses on Shakespeare—every little thing he said told her a little bit more about him and she was slowly piecing together the image of a full person in her mind, somebody she liked a lot. He didn't just help her with her English work; they started looking at the modern history syllabus for her class next year together, and he even prodded a little at psychology to his obvious derision. He was helpful and he was considerate and every time he hopped over the fence she wished he'd stay for longer. 

The boy next door. Even she had to admit it was a little cliché. 

On one such afternoon they'd been so wrapped up in a passionate discussion about the worth of the royal family comparatively to Victorian times that it was only as Rose heard the distant _hurrum_ of her mother's car that she realised how late it was. 

"That'll be my mum," she sighed, knowing it would mean she'd have to go in and start helping with dinner. 

John nodded. "I better get going anyway—didn't realise how late it was. Time flies, hm?" He stood and held out a hand to help her to her feet which she took, brushing off the grass from her knees as she did so. 

A moment later when she realised he hadn't let go of her hand, her pulse started to quicken. Almost bashfully he reached forward and removed a few blades of grass from her hair and she blushed almost as red as he was, before he dropped her hand and cleared his throat, breaking the moment. It was the unending summer, the burning heat and the heavy air getting to them. Rose didn't particularly protest. 

"I'll, erm, see you tomorrow?" he said.

She raised a playful eyebrow. "Will you?" At this he grinned, winked, and made for the fence. Rose found herself wondering if she shouldn't be heading over to his garden sometimes just to even things out; it hardly seemed fair that he was climbing it every day even if he was clearly at ease with it. He was so fast she never even saw him doing it. Regardless, Tardis House still gave her the creeps with its towering roof and dark windows. She'd stay as far away from it as she could get. Rose waved at him as he reached the bottom and he waved back.

Rose's attention was pulled by the screen door opening and her mother emerging, and when she looked back he was gone. 

"Come in and help, won't you Rose?"

"Sure. That was John by the way," she gestured in the vague direction he'd been standing, "one of the Smiths." 

"Who?" Jackie asked distractedly as she headed back inside. 

Rose's brow furrowed. "You didn't see him?" He'd been there not a second before she'd come out. How could she have missed him?

Jackie was saved from answering by the arrival of Pete and Tony, barely a few steps over the threshold before they were demanding their dinner. It was always a modest affair in the Tyler household, just the four of them seated around the table swapping stories about their day; but Jackie and Pete were tired, as they always were these days, and not all that invested in conversation although they feigned interest. Rose chose that opportunity to bring up John again. 

"I had a mate round today," she said, watching them for a reaction. 

"I thought all your mates were in France?" Pete frowned, reaching for the tomato ketchup and squirting a little on his sausages. 

"He's a new mate," she replied, "lives next door, John Smith. I mentioned him before, remember?"

This caught Jackie's attention, and she turned her light green eyes onto her. "Is he a relative of Bev's or something?" Rose realised she was assuming John was from their _other_ next door.

"No, he's—he's from the other side. Tardis? He climbs over the fence and we chat and stuff."

Her mother tutted dismissively. "Don't be daft, Rose. Nobody lives in Tardis."

Tony's head perked up at that moment, around a mouthful of mashed potato. "Is someone living in Tardis?" he beamed, and Jackie sighed heavily. "Can we go round and see?"

Rose was about to reply when her mother cut her off. "No one is living in Tardis." Then, to Rose; "Will you stop filling his head with ideas, please?"

Her daughter was more than a little affronted. "Will you quit calling me a liar, please?" she echoed Jackie's curt tone perfectly. "I didn't make him up, he lives there."

"Maybe we should call a truce—" Pete tactfully tried to intervene, but he was ignored by both wife and child. 

"Nobody's lived in Tardis for years, Rose. If someone had moved in we would know about it." The tone suggested the end of the argument right then and there and she knew Jackie wouldn't budge on the matter—she stabbed at one of her sausages mutinously, firing off a few curse words in her head. Why didn't Jackie just go round and see? He'd be there, clear as day. He wasn't one of Tony's imaginary friends, and she felt fury building inside her that her mother wouldn't listen to her. Rose knew she was tired from the amount of work she was doing that summer, but would it kill her to be a little more understanding? 

"I'll tell you who he is," Jackie clearly wasn't finished and continued matter-of-factly, "he's some bloke pretending to be our neighbour to get to you. Pretty girl, all on her own for summer. It's not so farfetched." Rose dismissed the idea immediately—John wasn't like that. Not even a little bit. 

"Maybe he's a ghost!" Tony giggled into his juice. Rose's heart stopped for a second. "Like Danish Cheese Man. My friend Sally says ghosts aren't always there. _And_ she says Tardis is spooky. She loves spooky places."

It was just Tony being _Tony_ , furthered as she watched Pete pat his son's hair affectionately, but it had sent Rose's brain into overdrive and she remained silent for the rest of the meal. One single memory dominated her entire thought process. 

_She never heard him touch the ground._

****

***

The next morning saw Tony crouched in front of the television while Rose was sat in their front garden, keeping an eye on him through the living room window. She'd slept fitfully and dark circles lined her eyes to show for it, but for most of the night she hadn't been able to ignore her racing thoughts while continually shifting in her bed to try and escape the burning heat—she hadn't been able to get Tony's words out of her head.

_"Maybe he's a ghost!"_

They were spoken in jest with all the playful imagination of a child, but they'd stayed with her. Maybe it was because she was thinking about the shadow or the voice or the fact that she never noticed him arrive or that he always seemed to just disappear or that he didn't know any of her friends and she didn't know any of his or— _something_. Every single thought kept ticking around her mind in the same cycle. It was irrational, of course it was, and she knew it, and yet she couldn't avoid indulging the thought process. 

_I'm just bored_ , she'd remind herself forcefully. Then that tiny voice would whisper, _Or asking the right questions_.

She wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the grass against the soft skin of her feet and lifted her gaze to look at Tardis. Most of the houses on the street were a little dead by mid-morning on a Tuesday, but the house next door was something else. It was silent, like it always was, and nothing moved. As a child Rose had always entertained the fantasy that the entire space around the structure was holding its breath, simply waiting for some form of release. She'd imagined that space to be like a huge bubble, and had often wondered what might happen if she burst it—so far she'd never rallied enough courage to approach the house. There had never been the need to. 

Today though, Rose found herself getting to her feet and walking hesitantly over to it. 

_If he is a ghost_ , she thought, _the house will be empty_. Then she'd know for sure, wouldn't she?

The hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle as she approached Tardis, uncertain if the low buzz that was coursing through her was adrenaline or some kind of energy that radiated from the house, strengthening the closer she got, and she was immediately doubting the wisdom of this course of action—this resulted in an internal chastisement. She wasn't a _coward_ , and it was just a stupid house. 

The front door was an old, rustic blue, with paint peeling from the corners and the pane of glass was so heavily frosted that she couldn't see inside. Similarly, the curtains were drawn across the sitting room window, as they always were, and she knew she'd have to try and sneak around the side and find another one. She bit her lip and threw a glance back at her own house. Tony could survive ten minutes without her. 

Fingertips brushing the rough brickwork, Rose began to tiptoe around the nearest corner in search of somewhere else to look. She found herself in a small side passageway tucked between the wall of the house and the hedge that ran between her house and his, before it stopped at the fence that separated their gardens—the hedge clearly wasn't maintained well from this side and she did her best to avoid getting struck by brambles and obtrusive straggles of branch and thorns. The first window she passed yielded the same results as the one at the front; curtains drawn. Rose crept along a little more until she estimated she'd be next to the kitchen, if the layout of the house was similar to hers. She found a screen door she could see through that would lead into the house but she didn't dare open it, merely peering inside.

She'd been right—it was the kitchen, or what seemed to be one. It was sparsely furnished with a pale wooden table in the far corner and a few cupboards and a fridge lining the wall to her right, along with what looked like a washing machine and perhaps a rubbish disposal cabinet. At first she allowed herself to feel relieved; she'd been ridiculous. How could she possibly have thought the boy next door wasn't real? Then another thought struck her, and she cupped her eyes with her hands to try and get a clearer look into the dimly lit room. 

There weren't any trinkets. 

It seemed silly to consider it at first, but it was the truth; there were no fridge magnets, no notice boards no stickers like the Power Rangers ones Tony had stuck all over the biscuit cupboard, not even a fruit bowl adorning the tabletop. The whole place was entirely _bare_ , and her heart began to thump anew. It didn't look homely. _It didn't look lived in._

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when something large and dark obstructed her view and Rose stumbled back in surprise, wincing as several thorns pricked into her shoulders and caught her hair. Suddenly afraid and trapped in a tangle of messy hedgerow she had nowhere to escape to when the screen door was slowly opened. It pulled back to reveal John standing on the front step, staring at her quizzically. 

"Rose?" He blinked twice on realising who was there. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," she replied automatically. "I was just—I was—" She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as she ran her fingers through her hair and tried to rid it of stray leaves. "You have a lovely home," she blurted, anything to save herself from responding. 

The corner of John's mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. "Do you want to come in?" 

"No," he raised an eyebrow at her quick response, "Erm, no _thank you_." 

"You sure? Mum was just about to serve lunch, you could stay round if you like."

Rose tried to hide the small squeak of panic that rose up within her; she hadn't seen anything in that kitchen to indicate a meal about to be laid out, and planned her speedy escape. 

"No I've got—Tony—that is—he'll be wondering where I am. I have to go. Sorry." She turned quickly and began hurrying back up the way she'd come. 

He called after her, "Rose?" but she merely waved a dismissive hand behind her. 

"Bye!" 

She'd never been so mortified in her life, and now she was even more conflicted than before.

****

***

After dropping Tony at his playgroup Rose had been half tempted to shut herself away in her room and waste the day napping much like she had in those first few blurry weeks of summer, if only so she wasn't at risk of seeing John. She was still far too embarrassed by the events that had occurred that morning and squirreling herself away with her textbooks seemed like a very attractive way to spend the afternoon. Still, she was a Tyler, and Tylers didn't run from their problems; they confronted them head on, so she defiantly sat outside with her copy of Othello like she had every other afternoon, wondering if John would come by today after what she'd done.

If he asked about it, what was she supposed to say? _Sorry you caught me snooping around but my kid brother suggested you might be a ghost and I believed him, so I just wanted to make sure_. There didn't seem to be a viable explanation, but one thing she'd decided was certain; she wasn't going to indulge in this ghost business any longer. It was just an offhanded comment that Tony had made and it was driving her to distraction thinking it over and making her do silly things like spying on her neighbours—he was just a normal guy, and it was unfair to him that she was thinking such things. In spite of this, even though she'd resolutely dismissed the notion for the sake of reason, the same thoughts still teased at the edge of her mind, and it took all of her willpower to ignore them and try and focus on the text in front of her. 

All of a sudden it was plucked from her fingertips and she looked up to find John standing over her, leafing through the pages disinterestedly before holding the book behind his back. She felt the flush from earlier return but was set on not looking away first, meeting his suspicious chocolate brown eyes with challenge.

Finally, he spoke, and it was with a teasing lilt that eased away some of the tension, "You were spying on me, weren't you?"

Rose had never been an expert liar and she knew it, letting her gaze drop and folding her arms, looking away. "I have no idea what you mean," she sniffed, "I was—I was just looking for something, that's all." 

John's smug grin widened. "Me?"

"No," she replied curtly, "My... I threw something over by accident." Yes, that was it. She was just looking to retrieve something she'd accidentally hurled over the fence. 

Everything she said seemed to delight him further. 

"A Frisbee?" he suggested.

Rose huffed, standing up and shoving him away as her ears reddened. "Stop it!" she grumbled, "I'm trying to save myself from embarrassment here and you're not helping!" She made a grab for the book he was holding behind his back but he lifted out of her reach. She darted again and this time he lifted it higher.

"It's adorable," he blurted out, and Rose froze mid-grab, staring at him suspiciously.

"Sorry?"

"It's—it's sweet, honestly it is. Don't apologise. I think it's a compliment that you were snooping around my kitchen door." His brow creased uncertainly and his smile dropped to one of slight embarrassment, and Rose couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to compliment _her_ in a roundabout sort of way. He cleared his throat. "Isn't it?"

Rose watched him carefully. "I guess?"

"I think it is," he said, and it was at that point when he lowered the arm with the book that she realised the proximity her attempts at retrieving her copy of Othello had left them. That accompanied with the dizzying heat left her heart aflutter and her inhibitions lowered; she didn't move away. 

"Good for you," she remarked quietly, staring up at him. 

He didn't move away either, and as his eyes flickered down to her lips she felt her heart begin to thud in anticipation. 

"Good for me." 

Then he was leaning down until he was just a hair's breadth from her mouth and the entire surface of her skin was aflame, her breathing shallower and her eyes solely trained on the soft pink of his lips. All thoughts of hauntings and Shakespeare and an unending summer fled her mind as he finally closed the distance between them. 

In that moment Rose decided, indubitably, that John Smith was without a doubt very much _real_.

The first touch was gentle and chaste, a mere brushing of his lips to hers and he drew back far too quickly. Unbidden, her eyes had shut and only when he pulled away did she realise that she wasn't looking at him anymore and opened them. She found him watching her intensely, as if waiting for her to pull away or to protest and at that particular point in time Rose felt like doing neither. In response she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth a little firmer to his, this time sliding languidly against it and feeling a rush of elation as he moved in response to her ministrations. The only boy she'd ever kissed before was Mickey, the pair of them had stumbled through a brief relationship when they were fifteen before deciding they'd be better off as friends, and none of the clumsy kisses she and Mickey had shared had given her the same excited tremble throughout her body.

As John's hands lifted to rest hesitantly on her waist she felt the corner of her copy of Othello dig into her side, and he tilted his head for better access. When their noses bumped awkwardly they both drew back and laughed lightly.

Rose was delighted to see the flush she felt reflected in his grinning face as well. 

"Um," she said.

"Um," he agreed, a lazy sort of smile painting his features. "Was that okay?"

She nodded mutely. "Definitely okay."

"So it's okay if I... do that more often?"

"Very okay." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips in anticipation, and she hadn't realised she'd leant forward until she came into contact with something hard and distinctly not-John, opening her eyes to find the familiar cover of Othello glaring out at her.

"But—first!" John dropped the book and grinned at her surprise, the smug twinkle in his eye irking her. "We got to Act 2 scene 3, right? Iago has a _fantastic_ soliloquy at the end. Truly brilliant." And in a flurry of movement he was bounding away from her and flipping through the pages in search of it. "'And what's he that says I play the villain?'" he quoted aloud to her, "'When this advice I give is true and honest?' Oh, he's a slippery one and no mistake."

It was like nothing had changed when he dropped down by the willow the same as he had every other day, and Rose wouldn't know anything to be different were it not for the tenderness in his eyes and the inviting hand he offered her when she sat beside him; the closer they worked and the shy looks he sent her when he thought she was concentrating. Then when he left that afternoon he kissed her again, brief and feather light but with the promise of more to come. 

After he'd gone when Rose saw the flicker of something dark moving underneath the shadow of the willow, she willed herself to ignore it and head back into the house.

She was just slipping inside the screen door when she heard the hissed, " _Rose..._ " 

This time it didn't surprise her like it had before, but she didn't turn. She refused to give it credence and shut her eyes and her ears to the strange goings on around her, choosing instead to think of John, of his cocky grin, and of the slow moving sun setting against the burnt orange sky.


End file.
